


In a Thousand Cities

by indoorbutch



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26988556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indoorbutch/pseuds/indoorbutch
Summary: What if Therese and Carol had run into each other the day before Carol was meant to go see the lawyers?
Relationships: Carol Aird/Therese Belivet
Comments: 56
Kudos: 219





	1. Chapter 1

Of all the ways the universe could still find to torture her, Carol hadn’t considered this.

Therese stood before her frozen, her lovely green eyes wide and startled. Those eyes. Had it really only been a few months since she had seen those eyes? It felt like years, and moments, since they’d laid together in the bed at the Drake, and Therese, sleepy and sated, had gazed up at her with such fierce love, before drifting off to sleep in her arms.

“Carol?”

Hearing her voice was worse. Hearing her whisper her name, quiet and hoarse, speared her with a sensation equal parts terror, and starvation. Yes, she was starved, and perhaps it wasn’t until this moment that she had really understood how much. The breadth of her longing, for this doe-eyed, quiet, innocent girl.

Oh, why had she gone into this shop? Why hadn’t it occurred to her how close she was to the _Times_ offices? Why hadn’t she considered that Therese (beautiful Therese—hair done and wearing makeup and dressed in lovely clothes—a vision) might pop into a shop like this on her way home from work, and buy a sandwich just as Carol had come in to do?

Carol still hadn’t spoken a word, her whole being locked up, her heart hammering, and now Therese looked more than startled, but worried. She took a tentative step forward, hand raised as if she would touch her.

All in a rush, Carol remembered: the lawyers tomorrow. The custody hearing. Harge. _Rindy_.

She stepped back. Therese froze again, but this time something terrible came into her eyes. She looked as if Carol had struck her. Seeing it, Carol felt as if she, too, had been struck. Her face burned with shame, with horror at herself, but even if she had wanted to do something, to apologize—it was too late. Therese’s eyes darted away. She seemed to sink into herself, turning away, and rushing from the shop.

Even after she had gone, Carol still couldn’t move. She was aware of other people around her, looking at her and wishing in irritation that she would get out of the way, but it didn’t matter. Her feet were stuck to the ground. A kind of panic surged through her, a desperate need to run after Therese, coupled with an equally desperate need to control herself. She was close— _so close_ , to all of it being over. Fred thought they had a good chance of retaining joint custody. Two doctors had written in her favor. She had the apartment on Madison Ave, and the new job, and soon she would be free of Harge altogether, and have Rindy—but not if she undid the last few months.

And yet, Therese’s perfect, delicate face. Therese’s haunting eyes as she’d turned away—were they damp? Did her lip tremble? Did Carol only imagine this, thinking of how Therese had wept in the car as they left Waterloo? Her darling, tender Therese, full of guilt and regret she should _never_ have had to feel. And now suddenly Carol knew that she had heaped more pain on her. More and more and more. _God_ , the girl was lucky to be rid of her!

But as Carol finally unstuck her feet from the floor, as she finally forced herself out of the shop, any thought of a sandwich forgotten, she knew that something had broken in her. The last of her resolve. The last of her self-control. If she did not get away now, she would go running down the street to the subway, calling Therese’s name. And that would be worse, she told herself angrily. That would be so much worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Therese returned to her apartment in a fugue, not entirely sure she was awake. Her eyes were hot and tight, but she hadn’t cried. She felt there wasn’t a tear left in her, after all this time. She changed out of her clothes, putting on soft trousers and a sweater that she liked, thinking she should spend the evening in her dark room. Find the solace of developing her pictures. Pretend the past hour hadn’t happened.

But it _had_ happened. Suddenly, she felt sick, almost like the time in the car driving back with Abby. Carol’s face in the shop filled her mind. She couldn’t force it away. Carol, who was just as beautiful as she had always been, just as regal, just as elegant, but who had gone still as a hunted animal at the sight of her. And then, when Therese shifted toward her—she had flinched. Flinched, as if Therese were dangerous, as if Therese were repugnant.

The memory of it sent an unexpected, but almost relieving shot of anger through her. For anger was so much better than grief, than shame. Those feelings made her feel weak, and small, and pathetic in her longing for Carol. Anger, on the other hand, made her feel strong. And she _was_ strong. After Carol left her, she was broken, hopeless, so consumed with loss that for a few weeks she could hardly function. But that was not forever, and she had pulled herself out of it, got herself the job at _The Times_ , bought her new wardrobe and remade herself into this young professional, sophisticated and talented and talked about in the office not just for her looks but her _skill_. That was _hers_ , not Carol’s, and she was proud of herself in a furious, determined way. How dare Carol look at her as if she were a threat? An _inconvenience_ , an _embarrassment_ , a mousy, silly girl who had gotten in her way and been foolish enough to fall in love with her…

A knock on the door startled her so much that she jumped. In surprise she looked around and realized that she was just standing in her living room, barefooted, staring at nothing. The knock came again, and she wiped her hands on her pants, realizing they were damp, that all of her was slightly damp, as if she’d run a mile. She felt feverish, suddenly, and hoped whoever it was at the door would go away.

They knocked a third time.

She went to the door and opened it.

All at once, she was catapulted back in time. Thrust into the days of Christmas and to the sight of Carol with her bright, eager smile, and the suitcase at her feet.

 _'Your landlady let me in. Merry Christmas!'_ And then, a little nervously, _'Open it.'_

Kneeling down and popping the latches—her first glimpse of that beautiful, expensive camera, and looking up to see Carol gazing at her with warmth and delight and hope—

Carol was not smiling now. Carol stood in front of her as pale and anxious as Therese had ever seen anyone, handbag clasped before her and fingers twisting against it as if she would wrench it apart.

For a moment, Therese was too startled, too baffled, to react. Then, she remembered her anger.

“What are you doing here?”

Carol flinched again—but this time was totally different from the sandwich shop. Her eyes darted away for a moment, then came back cautiously, looking at Therese in an agitated, beseeching way.

“Can I come in?” she asked. Her voice was rough, scratchy.

Therese crossed her arms over her chest, wanting to look imperious, but realizing that the gesture was actually self-protective. She hugged herself and looked away and looked back.

“Why?” she asked.

Carol swallowed, her long, pale throat flexing with the motion, so distracting that Therese lowered her eyes quickly, and stepped aside.

“Fine. Come in.”

Carol did, walking past her, and the scent of her perfume went with her, as intoxicating as Therese remembered. They went into the living room and Therese remembered suddenly how much more refined and glamorous Carol’s house in the country was. Another world altogether from this dingy little apartment with its threadbare furniture and the furnace always sputtering out. Why would Carol come here? What could she possibly want with plain old Therese Belivet and her plain, ugly apartment? Yet here she was, eyes moving over everything with a focus that looked almost… hungry. And then that hungry gaze was on her, intense and all-consuming.

“I wanted to apologize,” she said. Then, after a pause, “for my behavior, this afternoon.”

A laugh rose in Therese’s throat, almost hysterical, but she choked it down. She looked at Carol incredulously, and said, “For this afternoon?”

Carol’s eyes cut away again, another flinch. She was so… different. Just as statuesque. Just as glorious and just as gorgeous, but… diminished, somehow. Vulnerable, in a way that Therese had only glimpsed once or twice while they were together. Unwillingly, she remembered the night in Waterloo, and Carol’s eyes in the mirror’s reflection as she loosened her robe. She had been vulnerable, then. Frightened and _longing_. Later, after she had left Therese weak and pulsing from pleasure, she’d looked at her with a kind of desperate adoration before finally, tentatively, guiding Therese’s fingers between her own legs…

This time it was Therese who flinched—away from that memory, that went through her like an arrow. Flustered and nervous, she made a gesture at the room around them.

“You didn’t have to come here to apologize,” she said coldly. “There’s no need to… lower yourself by coming here.”

Carol looked at her sharply, her gray eyes stunned, her fine brows coming together in disbelief.

“What?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“If you feel that you were rude, you might have simply written me a note. As you did before.”

“Therese—”

“I’m not as stupid and naïve as you think I am. I understand that our… trip… was a diversion for you. Something to pass the time until you could come back and sort things out with Harge, which is what you’ve been doing I assume.”

“Therese—” 

“And since I was clearly an obstacle to that, I don’t see why you should complicate things by—”

“Damn it, would you let me _speak_!?”

Carol’s eyes were blazing. The whole room was blazing, suddenly, hot, and bright, and thrumming with a tension that made the hairs stand up on Therese’s body. They looked at each other across the room. _Glared_ at each other, and Therese knew she was breathing hard, caught between fury and a feeling she refused to name.

A moment’s silence, and then Carol said angrily, “You were not a _diversion_. You were—you _are_ —” she stopped, apparently unsure how to go on. She made an exasperated sound, and Therese was still breathing unsteadily, and she had crossed her arms, hands gripping at her own elbows so tight she might have bruised them.

Carol said, “Leaving you in Chicago—I didn’t do it because I was _heartless_. I did it because I couldn’t _bear_ to—” she cut off again, eyes rolling up in vexation. Therese told herself she was imagining the sudden roughness of Carol’s voice, the break at the end, the shimmer in her eyes. When Carol looked at her again, all trace of it was gone, replaced with a steeliness that made Therese’s whole body tighten. “Harge stood to take everything,” she said harshly. “He had those damned tapes, and I knew I had to set it right. I couldn’t do that if I was worried about you being… dragged into it more than you had been. That’s why I came back, to set it right. I’m meeting with the lawyers tomorrow. I think I’ve got a shot. I couldn’t have _done_ that if you—”

“I understand,” Therese snapped. Carol’s sentence cut off and she stared at her. Therese had never actually interrupted her before. Not like this. Therese felt the power in it, the power of unseating Carol, who had grown so righteous in the last few moments, and now looked wide-eyed and lost. “I understand why you did it. He’s trying to take Rindy. Of course you will do anything you must to keep her. I told you. I’m not naïve. But you’re not naïve either, Carol. You left me—naked—in a hotel room for Abby to clean up and ferry home. Like a child. You haven’t contacted me since, and today it was clear that you—”

She stopped, swallowed, terrified all at once that there _were_ tears still left in her. She feared that Carol would take her momentary silence as an opportunity to start arguing again, but Carol only looked at her. It must be embarrassment on Carol’s face—the embarrassment of being caught out. The agony in her eyes must be the shame of knowing she had behaved badly. Carol, the socialite. Carol, the sophisticate. Bad manners were so unforgiveable.

“I think you should go,” Therese whispered. “Thank you for your… apology. But I know what I am to you. And I think you should go.”

There was a moment of silence as Therese waited for her to say something, anything—but she didn’t. Only stood there staring at her. Therese turned away, walking swiftly toward the front door. Something was rising in her, a lump in her throat, a grief she thought she had overcome. Carol had to leave. If she saw Therese break, Therese feared she would never recover. She reached for the door handle, meaning to fling it open—

But another hand came up behind her, shoving the door shut again. Therese’s breath hitched. Carol was behind her. She was crowded almost up against the door and Carol was behind her, holding her there. She could smell her perfume, infused with that end-of-the-day richness that had always made Therese so fluttery and distracted. She could feel her warmth, bleeding into her. Her voice in her ear was a low rasp.

“You don’t,” Carol whispered fiercely. “You don’t know what you are to me. You clearly have _no_ idea.”

“Carol,” Therese said, and thought about pushing away from the door, breaking free. Carol’s arm was still holding the door closed, bracketing her in, and she had a thought that it should make her furious. That if Richard had ever done anything like this, trapping her like this, she would have been furious.

“I’ve thought of you every day,” Carol said. “Almost every moment. I’ve missed you… terribly.”

_I miss you. I miss you._

“I’ve been cruel, and wrong, and selfish. You’re right about all of that. But you’re not right about _you_.”

Carol shifted closer. Now Therese could feel the whole length of her body, pressed against her. Could feel her breasts against her back. Could feel her pelvis, and her thighs, and Therese’s mouth went dry. She still had the doorknob in a stranglehold, afraid to let go. Afraid she’d collapse. Very slowly, almost cautiously, Carol bent her head, nuzzling against her hair. Therese went rigid, heart hammering. Carol sighed, and bent her head lower, til Therese could feel Carol’s nose nudging behind her ear, against her neck. Therese couldn’t help it. A whimper escaped, traitorous. Suddenly Carol’s hand that was not on the door slipped forward, onto her hip, holding her—so gently—as she ran her nose down her neck, to her shoulder, breathing her in.

“Darling…” she whispered. “Please believe me. _Please_.” 

She felt so good. She smelled so good. They had had so little time together like this, but those two nights were ingrained in Therese’s soul. The smallness of the beds. The warmth of Carol’s skin. The softness of her mouth and the strength in her hands as she’d touched her. Therese whimpered again, a low, helpless sound, and Carol’s arm slipped around her waist, holding her closer. She was still moving so gently, so cautiously. When she pressed her lips to Therese’s shoulder, she did it as if she thought she might be thrown off at any moment. Therese told herself angrily, _‘Throw her off. Get away from her. She’s using you. All she’s ever done is use you—’_

But then Carol’s lips parted against her shoulder, the softest kiss, the hint of wetness from her mouth, and Therese was lost.


	3. Chapter 3

_‘You need to stop,’_ Carol told herself, even as goosebumps rose under her lips, a wave that spread down her own back, Therese’s reaction licking through her like a flame. _‘This is selfish. You’re being so selfish. It’s not fair to Therese—’_

“Carol,” Therese whispered, and the crack in her voice made Carol shudder, made Carol pant, made her mouth that had been moving so carefully sink down, and suck, and then, before she could stop herself, _bite_.

Therese arched against her, gasping. She let go of the doorknob and slapped her palm against the door, right next to Carol’s, and Carol grabbed that hand and laced their fingers together, even as her other hand slid up her chest, cupping a small, soft breast through the sweater she wore. Therese wasn’t wearing a bra. Incensed, Carol squeezed, feeling a nipple peak against her palm, feeling the shiver that went through Therese’s small frame as her chest pushed forward, into Carol’s hand. It was too much. It felt too good. It was just as she remembered, only somehow more intense, brighter, all consuming, and when Therese’s free hand slid up and into her hair, Carol’s whole body began to ache with maddening desire.

But still that voice in her head whispered, _‘Don’t’_ and _‘Careless’_ and _‘Not fair.’_

Carol wrenched her mouth away, but couldn’t stop from pressing her face into her neck, pressing her body into Therese’s back, cupping and massaging her breast and gasping out, “Therese, please—my angel—tell me—”

What was she asking for? Permission? Absolution? No… _deliverance_. For all these weeks had been a horror, had been a prison, locked away not only from Rindy but from the comfort and safety and sweetness that were Therese. And she couldn’t bear it, not for anything, not unless—unless Therese told her to stop.

“Therese,” she gasped again, and she was almost ashamed by the brokenness in her own voice, the desperation of it, except—

The hand in her hair fisted tight, and that was all Carol could stand. Moaning, she wrestled Therese against the wall, turned her around so they were facing each other, and in the same moment Therese was arching up, and she was bending down, and their kiss was like a dam as it broke.

In Waterloo, she’d been gentle. Passionate, but gentle—that first kiss a slow perusal. She’d felt Therese’s eagerness, felt the girl’s mouth opening against hers, but even then it was long minutes and much exploration before her own lips parted, before she slid her tongue tentatively into her young lover’s mouth, before she let the full depth of her need convey itself in her kiss. She had been afraid of scaring Therese off. Afraid, too, of being like that wretched boyfriend, that Richard, who Therese had once admitted was “sloppy” and “brutish” when he kissed. Carol didn’t want to be like that. By the time she felt the soft, wet slip of Therese’s tongue against hers, she’d been half mad with need, and certain she’d taken sufficient time working up to it.

Now, in this narrow hallway, there was no gentleness, no working up to it. She slid her hands up under Therese’s sweater, clutching at her naked back, kissing Therese in a way she’d never done before. Licking into her mouth, swallowing her sounds. It was wet and ferocious and—yes—sloppy—and it felt like heaven. From the way Therese pressed back, from how Therese’s mouth opened under hers and how her tongue met hers and the way she whimpered and moaned and gripped at Carol’s hair—Carol thought perhaps it was heaven to her, too.

But it wasn’t enough.

Her hands slid down, to the waistband of Therese’s trousers. She’d never seen her in trousers before. At the sandwich shop, Carol was struck silent by the refined and elegant woman Therese had become, how _fine_ she looked in her jacket and skirt, her hair coiffed and her lips red. But this—this sweater and these soft, loose trousers, and Therese’s small, bare feet, made her think that she would lose all control. She practically tore the buttons open. She dropped to her knees, dragging the trousers down Therese’s legs, and helping her to step out of them.

She meant to stand up again, to take Therese in her arms and rush her to the nearest surface—the bed or the couch or the table, even. But now that she was kneeling, she found herself rooted to the spot. Therese’s sweater hung down to her hips, nearly concealing her white underwear, but it did not conceal her legs. And her legs were— _God_ —unbearable. Slim, and muscular from all the walking she did. Carol gripped the tight mounds of her calves, leaning forward to nuzzle her kneecap, and then higher, her thigh, and then higher. Therese made a soft, strangled sound. One of her hands was still in Carol’s hair, but the other gripped her shoulder, so tight it hurt.

Carol could smell her now, a rich, familiar scent that made her mouth water, made her own center ache. She grabbed at Therese’s underwear, feeling reckless as she nearly ripped them off, but she couldn’t wait. She moved closer, coaxing Therese to open her stance, sliding a hand under one of her knees and lifting her thigh.

Therese sounded confused, sounded breathless, “What are you—?” 

Carol didn’t pause to explain. Now one of Therese’s legs was over her shoulder, and without another thought Carol pressed forward and took her in her mouth.

Therese’s whole body went rigid. She cried out, and it was the most uninhibited, exquisite sound Carol had ever heard. In Waterloo, Therese had made lots of sounds—soft moans and quiet whimpers and helpless gasping breaths. When she’d come, it was with a hitched sob, her whole body shaking, but even then, she wasn’t _loud_. Now, she was loud. She was desperate. One of her hands scrabbled against the wall and her pelvis shoved forward into Carol’s mouth and her other hand carded through Carol’s hair.

Carol wanted to go deeper, wanted to taste her at the source, but the angle wasn’t right for it, so she sought out and focused on her clit. Small, and rock hard, and delicious. She was so wet already; Carol felt it on her chin, felt it on the insides of Therese’s thighs, and she was ravenous for the taste and heat and softness of her. She licked and kissed and sucked, holding her thigh, needing more. She moved her free hand up under the sweater and felt the flutter of Therese’s stomach. Her skin was a marvel, silky and perfect. Carol slid higher, grazing the underside of her breast, and then reaching with her fingers for the tight pebble of her nipple.

“Carol,” Therese gasped, “Oh, Carol…”

Her thighs were trembling badly. Carol hitched her closer, used her shoulder and her hand to help keep her standing. She was terrified that Therese would collapse, that she would lose the feel of her against her mouth, that it would all end—but Therese didn’t fall. Instead, she started to rock, pushing her hips against Carol, moaning continuously. And Carol was moaning, too, overcome. The floor was hard under her knees and after a few minutes her neck and jaw started to twinge and Therese was using both hands now to claw at her hair, at her head. But every little pain only made the whole of it more arousing, more wonderful, and she wouldn’t stop for anything—not when it was clear that Therese was close.

“D-don’t stop,” Therese gasped, hands clenching and holding still. “Oh, d-d-don’t stop. Oh please. P-please! Don’t stop.”

Carol wanted to promise her, _‘I won’t stop. I’ll never stop. I’ll never stop again.’_ Instead, she let go of Therese’s breast, brought her hand down, working awkwardly until she could get between her legs where she was soaking and hot, and with her lips wrapped around and suckling on Therese’s clit, she slid two fingers deep inside her.

Therese’s whole body convulsed. She let out a shout, pulsing around Carol’s fingers. Carol held them still, crooked forward, and kept suckling, kept laving, moaning almost as loudly now as Therese moaned. Her own sex clenched in sympathy, and she could feel the wetness on her own thighs as Therese kept coming in fluttering waves. It went on for so long, and Therese was shuddering and gasping, and finally Carol pulled back just enough that she could look up and watch her as she struggled through the last, consuming aftershocks of pleasure.

Even after it was over, Carol watched her—her head turned to the side and pressing into the door, her eyes closed, her lips parted and still gasping as she came down. God, she was the most beautiful, glorious thing. Her sex gave little weak clenches, and when Carol finally drew out of her, she shook again, whimpering. After a moment she lifted her thigh off Carol’s shoulder so that she was standing on her own again, but Carol remained on her knees, soothing her legs with long, smooth strokes. She still hadn’t opened her eyes, and that was how Carol saw the tear that gathered and ran down her cheek.

“We shouldn’t have done this,” Therese whispered.

It was like running into a wall of ice. Carol froze, staring up at her as her heart seemed to judder and stop working altogether. _Oh God, what have you done? What have you_ done _!?_ Therese opened her eyes but wouldn’t look at her, shaking her head and staring at the ceiling as another tear ran free.

“I—I never say no to you.”

“Therese—I—”

“I’ve made you risk—everything—again, and I—” she shook her head again, looking almost panicked, looking terrified, and Carol thought her heart would shatter. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I—”

“ _Therese_!” she exclaimed, desperate, “Don’t you know I love you?”

It came out as a cry, as supplication. Therese looked sharply down at her, her face caught in disbelief, confusion, shock. And then, to Carol’s abject horror, Therese began to sob. 


	4. Chapter 4

Therese could still feel what Carol had done to her. She could still feel her mouth between her legs, and her fingers inside of her. She could feel the warm ache of her release, not just in her sex but in her thighs and belly and the hard points of her breasts. It was more than she had ever felt in her life, an intensity of pleasure and relief that left her weak.

But she could not stop crying.

It was like something had broken in her. Some carefully constructed tower of glass that was her life, her sanity, her self-control, and Carol’s words had swept a bat through the foundation, and now all of it was crashing around her. She nearly buckled under the force of it, covering her eyes, pushing back into the door as if she could escape through it. She had never wept like this. Not even when Carol left her at the Drake. Somehow, she managed to look at Carol, who was still on her knees and staring at her, white with shock. Therese couldn’t bear it, so she turned away, covering her eyes again, hunching at the waist as if she would fall.

For months she had told herself how little she meant to Carol. That she was a passing fancy, an entertainment, an illicit pleasure that Carol and Abby probably laughed about. The helpless ingenue. The unpedigreed girl, easily seduced and just as easily discarded. She told herself this, even when a part of her knew it wasn’t true, because it was somehow better than the hope that Carol felt anything close to what Therese felt. Better, because holding that hope, and losing it, was the worst pain she could imagine.

And now—and now—

All at once Carol was getting to her feet. Therese wept, and kept herself turned away, dreading to see Carol’s face and what she might be feeling—pity? Or worse, distaste? How could she love someone who was so wretched, so helpless?

But then Carol’s arms were around her, pulling her close—into her smell, into her warmth. Therese heaved a choking breath and couldn’t stop herself. She was weak. She pressed her face into Carol’s neck. She found herself eking out words that burned from the pit of her stomach.

“How can you say that to me?” she sobbed. “How can you—how can you tell me that when—when now you must—when you are going to leave again? How can you give me that and then take it from me again when I—when I—”

Suddenly—and she didn’t know how—Carol was bending down and sliding a hand under her knees and scooping her up. How did she do it? As if Therese were no bigger than Rindy? But she did, holding Therese against her and carrying her from the hall. They didn’t have far to go, but Therese clung to her, wrapping arms around her neck, weeping still, though now it was from more than grief—it was from the all-consuming, body melting joy of Carol’s nearness. That she had longed for. Ached for. Feared never to have again.

Carol took her into the bedroom and lay them both down on the small twin bed and didn’t relax her hold even for a moment. She clung to Therese, holding her so tight, and whispered, “Darling, don’t. Please. I’m sorry. Don’t cry. It’s all right. I promise it will be all right.”

Therese realized in some surprise that Carol’s voice was rough, that she was crying, too. Therese tried to press even closer, burying her face against Carol’s neck. They lay there for a long time and Therese became slowly aware that her own sobs were coming less frequently, now. She felt exhausted, almost ill. At one point Carol started to move and she gripped her, panicked, until she realized that Carol was only reaching for the ratty comforter and pulling it over them. Then, in a cocoon of warmth, she kept softly crying. Until, after what may have been minutes, or hours, she stopped. And then, she fell asleep.

<><><>

She woke, and Carol was there.

This had never happened before. In Waterloo she slept much later than Carol, woke to the sight of her at the window, haloed in morning light. And at the Drake, of course…

It was not morning, but nighttime. What time had she fallen asleep? Seven? She needed the toilet badly, and she was starving. She had a headache, and her eyes were swollen and gritty from crying. But in those first moments of waking, it didn’t matter, because Carol was holding her, breathing deeply, asleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Carol woke with a jerk, disoriented, until a familiar arm tightened across her waist.

“It’s all right,” Therese whispered.

Carol’s heart was pounding, and yet she managed, after a moment, to sink gingerly back into the mattress. Her thoughts and memories were all garbled, a cacophony of anguish, and delight. Therese’s mouth, moving hungrily against her own, her body rocking and shuddering as she came. But also, her tears, and the words she’d said, that even now made Carol’s eyes prick with agony and shame. Her sweet and gentle Therese. The wide-eyed shop girl in the Santa hat, who had somehow gotten under her skin and into her heart and made her love her with such a passion—Carol had hurt her so terribly. How could she ever forgive herself for that? Carol felt a burst of self-loathing so acute she almost shuddered, but then—

“Do you have to go?” Therese asked.

Her voice was small, and frightened. She must have felt the tension in Carol’s body and misinterpreted—

 _‘Stop wallowing! Enough of yourself for once. Care for her._ Be _with her!’_

“Angel, _no_ ,” she whispered, and her voice was hoarse. The arm around her tightened again. Therese’s head was resting on her chest, and she lifted a hand to comb gently through her fine dark hair. “No, I can stay. If you want me to, I’ll stay.”

She heard Therese swallow, and answer, “Yes.”

They lay silent for a long time. Carol was still in her dress, and it was uncomfortable. She would have loved to take off her stockings—not least so that she could feel Therese’s bare legs, tangled with hers under the comforter.

“I’ve got to use the washroom,” Therese said, but didn’t move.

Finally, Carol tilted her head, kissing her gently at the temple.

“It’s all right, Darling. You go. Why don’t I make us some tea? And something to eat?”

Therese said, “All right.”

After another long pause, they got up. They moved slowly, quietly. They were careful with each other, eyes catching only for a moment, then shyly breaking away. But as Therese padded toward the washroom, her sweater just barely clearing her buttocks, a shock of want went through Carol, reminding her all at once of the stickiness on her thighs, of the taste of Therese in her mouth, of the exquisite crest of her pleasure in the hallway.

Carol shook herself. This wasn’t the time. She went into the kitchen, wincing against the light that had been left on. There was a clock above the sink. She saw in some surprise that it was only 9:30. It felt like years ago that they’d met in the sandwich shop, and yet really it was only a few hours. Thinking of this, Carol remembered that both of them had left the shop without getting anything for dinner, and this gave her purpose—which was a relief. She opened the refrigerator to find it almost empty (one of those proofs of Therese’s youth, and it made her smile) except for butter and a couple of eggs and a nearly empty bottle of milk. Good enough. She found tea in the cupboard and set quickly to work, filling the kettle, lighting the stove, and setting a pan to heat with a little pat of butter in the center.

Through the apartment, she heard the sound of the shower coming on, and almost groaned. A shower sounded heavenly about now, but even better—a shower with Therese. She imagined herself slipping out of the kitchen, slipping out of her dress, opening the bathroom door, and joining Therese, naked, under the spray. She remembered the time on the road when she had asked Therese to grab her sweater for her while she was finishing in the shower. She remembered opening the washroom door with her robe barely tied, and the flash of Therese’s eyes as they flicked, unsubtly, across her. It had happened so fast, but it stayed with her for hours, one of those clues that, at the time, she gobbled up like truffles—hints that maybe, just maybe, Ms. Therese Belivet _was_ like her. And wanted her.

The butter was sizzling in the pan. She cracked the eggs one-handed and dropped them in the pan to fry. There were only two, a paltry dinner, but then she found some bread in the bread box and cut off two thick slices, feeling better about what she would have to offer Therese. Toast and eggs and tea. Not unlike the breakfasts they had so often during their trip.

Their trip. _‘A diversion,’_ Therese had called it. If only she knew how wrong that was. That it was, that it became, so much more than that, so much more even than she’d expected, when she asked Therese to come with her. All she’d known was that Therese in her sweetness and curiosity and beauty made her feel calm, made her feel seen. She had never guessed the other things that would come to light as they drove for long hours down highways and backroads. Therese’s humor. Her intelligence. Her serious and considered opinions and her thoughtful questions. Her quick flashes of wit that startled laughter out of Carol. She had fallen in love with her so quickly, so— _unexpectedly_. And now Therese thought it was all just a passing fling to her? She had so much to explain. So much to make up for.

Just the thought of it made her restless. As she finished the eggs and toasted the bread, she thought about finding her cigarette case. But then the shower went off. It was all she could do not to go and look, hungry for the sight of Therese. She forced herself to stay in the kitchen, to give her some privacy. She found plates, and mugs for the tea, and she was just setting everything on the table when Therese appeared in the kitchen doorway.

God, she was beautiful. Her hair was damp, and she was wearing the polka dot pajamas. The sight of them sent a throb through Carol, who stood and stared at her. After a moment, Therese looked self-conscious, eyes cutting away, so Carol said, “Come and have something to eat.”

Therese came shyly over to her. But instead of sitting right away she looked up at her, and then rose on her toes and kissed her, very softly. Carol made a soft sound, wanting, and when Therese drew back her eyes were dark. Still a little swollen from crying, but she looked calmer now. 

“Have something to eat,” Carol said again, her voice strained. Therese’s lips quirked just the tiniest bit, recognizing the effect she had. This was as provocative as anything Carol had ever seen, so she quickly sat down. “I used the last of your eggs. I hope it’s all right.”

Therese nodded, “Thank you Carol. I’m famished. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” Then she lifted her bewitching green eyes and looked directly at her and murmured, “Bon appetit.”

Carol nearly swooned. The girl was a minx. A siren. It took everything in her not to vault across the table. Instead, she eyed her dryly, “Eat, you troublemaker.”

Therese smirked, and obeyed.


	6. Chapter 6

They ate quietly for several minutes. It was lovely to sit together like this, to see the way Carol looked at her, to tease her gently and watch spots of pink appear high on her cheekbones. She’d never seen Carol so… affected before. So obviously eager to please. So clearly longing to touch her. It gave Therese a sensation of power that, for once, didn’t need anger to motor it along. Yes, she had power over Carol—to make her want. To make her stay. Because Carol loved her.

Yet as they kept eating, Therese’s initial pleasure at this thought began to fade. She thought of all the people who had power over Carol—Harge, and the lawyers, and the courts—and suddenly she didn’t want to be like them. She didn’t want Carol to be bowed and bent. She wanted her tall, and brilliant, and self-possessed, as she’d been that first day, in Frankenburg’s. She remembered Carol’s hunted look in the sandwich shop, the startlement and fear when they came face to face. There had to be a reason why. It couldn’t have been love that made her look like that. Therese had meant everything she said in the hallway. She knew that Carol coming to her was a risk. And now Carol was staying. How much more of a risk was that?

“What are you thinking?”

Carol’s voice still had that slight hoarseness. She looked up at her. Carol looked tired. A little pale. Her dress was wrinkled, and her hair hung limp. Still, the beauty of her made Therese’s heart clench. The question made it clench again.

_‘What are you thinking? Do you know how many times a day I ask you that?’_

“I’m sorry,” Therese said, but couldn’t bring herself to go on. She was afraid to speak, afraid to know, because she feared what knowing would mean.

“Ask me,” Carol urged her.

_‘Ask me things, please…’_

“I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. God knows I owe you that, and so much more.”

Therese had put her fork down, though the food was only half eaten. Her appetite was gone. She took a drink of tea to stall for time, then set the cup down. Suddenly, in a rush, she asked, “What happened, after you left?”

Carol breathed out and slowly breathed in, as if preparing herself for a deep water dive. As if preparing herself to be submerged in quicksand. She got up and went into the living room and came back with her cigarette case and lighter. She offered one to Therese, and Therese took it, and after they had both lit their cigarettes and taken that first, fortifying drag, Carol began to speak.

Therese forced herself to listen carefully, even as each new revelation caused the dread in her stomach to spread, like a cancer. Carol described a return to New York that was shrouded in its own dread. She described an outline of rules and demands, of lunches and dinners with Harge’s family, and being forced to endure prying questions, and getting to see Rindy only once, twice, for half an hour. She described a place called The Saddlebrook Institute, and a doctor ( _‘A psychotherapist,’_ Carol gritted) who was the most prying of all. He wanted to know about her sex life. About her fantasies. About her time in Harge’s bed, and Abby’s bed, and Therese’s. He seemed very focused on what made her orgasm; he promised to cure her of deviance; he told her it was in her own power to recover and find a healthy sexual partnership with her husband. Or, failing that, with another man. Carol described Harge telling her not to see Abby (this hit Therese like a gut punch) and finding ways to do it anyway (this made Therese proud) and Abby telling her to fake it. Tell the doctors and Harge and Harge’s parents what they wanted to hear, even though it was terrible. Say anything, promise anything, to get through these months, to get through the hearing, to get Rindy back.

And she described the most brutal and obvious of Harge’s demands: no contact with Therese, whatsoever. She must prove that it was over. He had the tapes. He would use them.

It took Carol a long time to tell her everything. At some point they relocated to the living room, and to the small loveseat. Carol sat with one leg crossed over the other, a dignified pose that belied all the indignity she had suffered. Therese sat in the opposite corner, knees pulled to her chest and listening, watching. She asked only a few questions. At the end, she asked what seemed the most important question of all.

“When is your meeting with the lawyers?”

Carol was brushing fingers through her hair as she sometimes did, moving the golden strands out of her eyes. She had just finished her third cigarette. She reached for the case, for another, but then snapped it closed and set it down again, sighing.

“Tomorrow. 9 o’clock.”

Therese’s stomach plummeted. It was all so much worse than she had imagined. No wonder Carol had flinched in the sandwich shop. She was so close to having what she wanted, and then Therese had appeared, threatening everything. Yet Carol was here. It seemed suddenly beyond reckless that she was here. What if someone had seen her come here? For all they knew, Harge still had a detective trailing her. For all they knew, he was getting a report right now, a damning report, that would undo everything Carol had accomplished, suffered to accomplish. And it would be Therese’s fault. Therese gripped her knees to herself, as tightly as she could, and her eyes scanned the apartment, as if she would be able to see some proof of a recording device.

“Therese,” Carol said, “What is it?”

She was looking at her with furrowed brow, with eyes full of worry.

Therese said, “Isn’t it… a terrible risk… coming here?”

Carol’s eyes flashed, with defiance, with fury—but Therese knew the fury was not directed at her, but at the detective in Waterloo, and at Harge, and the lawyers, and the psychotherapist. The fury made her brilliant, made her ferocious, a survivor and a warrior. Yes, Therese knew, Carol could fight and survive anything. But Therese also knew at what cost. And that she must be the cost. Again. She must be discarded. Left behind. It was the only way.

“You can’t spend the night,” Therese said weakly.

Carol looked stricken.

“What?”

Therese swallowed down the rising lump in her throat. She looked away. “Your meeting is early. You haven’t got a change of clothes.”

“I can get up in time to go home.”

“Carol, I don’t think—”

“I’m _not_ leaving you again,” Carol snapped. Therese looked at her, startled. Her eyes were flaming, and she said, “Do you hear me, Therese? I _can’t_. I thought I could go on like this, shut myself away, shut you away. I thought I could do anything, would do anything, to keep Rindy with me. But what good am I to her, like this? When I saw you today, I behaved like a frightened child. Is that what Rindy needs from a mother? And what about when _she_ is frightened? What will I teach her? To hide? To run away from what she wants? What shall I do if _she_ is different, like us? Tell her to defy herself? To go against her own grain just to please the world and pacify men like Harge? Shall I never see you again? Shall I never _love_ again, for fear of losing her? Is that the life I want to model for my daughter? Loveless, and broken-hearted, and afraid? What good am I to her, to either of us, like that? It’s not what I want for myself, Therese. It’s not what _I_ deserve. I have broken myself in half trying to appease Harge. I have stripped you from my life when you were—when you are—the most beautiful—the dearest, and most precious—when all I wanted was to—”

Now she was breaking off. She couldn’t seem to finish her sentences, overcome with a rising emotion that had filled her eyes with tears. And her mouth was trembling, and her hands were trembling, and suddenly Therese could not stand it anymore.

She uncurled from her corner of the loveseat. She moved forward all in a rush, climbing into Carol’s lap, wrapping arms around her neck as Carol’s arms instantly came around her back. They gripped each other tight, Carol pushing her face into Therese’s throat. Therese felt the dampness of her tears. She kissed her hair, her hands running up into the blonde waves that felt like silk through her fingers.

“Shh,” she whispered. “Oh, Carol, shh, it’s all right. I won’t make you go. I promise.”

And she wouldn’t. No, never. A lock had clicked open, now, revealing what she hadn’t understood before. Carol made a choking sound and seemed only to hold her tighter. They shifted, til Therese was straddling her with knees on either side of Carol’s hips, and in this position their whole bodies were flush, and this at last seemed to calm Carol’s body. But Therese was also trembling—she was overcome by what Carol had said. Stunned, by her passion and vehemence, and by the world she imagined, where daughters should not have to watch their mothers suffer, and mothers should not have to give their hearts up just to be what the world demanded. Suddenly, for the first time in months, Therese found herself thinking of her own mother, wondering if she had found any happiness, and wishing, hoping, that she had.

“Darling, you’re cold.”

Carol’s voice brought her sharply back. Carol was rubbing her back and her arms to warm them. Therese hadn’t even known that she was cold, but she was. Normally she didn’t go about the apartment in just her pajamas, and normally she did more to dry her hair, but tonight she’d been too eager to get back to Carol, and left her robe in the bedroom.

“Why aren’t you wearing socks?” Carol grumbled, obviously disapproving.

Therese couldn’t help it. She giggled. Carol pulled back from where she had still been nuzzling against Therese’s throat and looked at her sternly. But Therese giggled again and slowly a light and lightness came into Carol’s eyes. It was so beautiful that Therese slid her hands into her hair again, cupping the back of her head and tilting it up, and then she was kissing her.

It was like their kiss in the hallway, but also, so different. That kiss was frantic, a wild inferno, an unavoidable collision. This kiss smoldered, and if Therese had been cold moments ago, suddenly, she flooded with heat. She needed more. She coaxed Carol’s mouth open under hers and slid her tongue hesitantly against hers and Carol moaned, low and helpless. The sound shot between Therese’s legs. Before she could stop herself, she was shifting, grinding forward, seeking—anything! Carol’s hands had slid up her back, under her top, but suddenly they moved down again, gripping her ass, tugging her closer. Therese gasped, sharp and startled, because Carol had never touched her in that way before, her hands squeezing, possessive. Carol’s teeth dragged against her bottom lip, and nipped at her, and when she gasped again Carol moved aggressively into her mouth, her tongue stroking hungrily.

Carol’s dress had a long zipper down the back, and three quarter sleeves. Therese pulled the zipper down as far as she could, tugging at the collar and whimpering, “Take this off. Please, take this off!”

Because she was suddenly desperate, for Carol’s smooth, delicious skin, for the jut of her collarbones and the defined muscles of her back, for her stomach and hips with their fine silver stretch marks that Therese wanted to lick and bite. They managed together to wrestle the top half of the dress off, so that it bunched around Carol’s waist and left her in just her brassiere, but before Therese could stand up and yank the rest of it down Carol was grabbing at her top, desperately working the buttons loose. No sooner had she got it open than Carol was bending down, taking a nipple into her mouth. Therese jerked, head thrown back and chest arching forward as Carol began to suckle at her.

In Waterloo, and then the Drake, Carol had been cautious. She had taken her time. She had skirted Therese’s nipples and her sex at first, running her lips and face against other, nearly as sensitive parts of her. But Therese didn’t think she could have handled that kind of delicacy right now. Her memories of the hallway were still sharp in her, made her hot and anxious for more. She thought of how Carol had put a thigh over her shoulder and leaned forward and licked, without hesitation. Therese hadn’t known that kind of lovemaking was possible. It had consumed and dismantled her, utterly, so much more ferocious than what they’d shared on the road. Not better, exactly, but—it was what she’d needed. And what she needed now, again.

Carol pulled her shirt off. Switched to her other breast and worried the nipple between her teeth. Therese gave a cry, gripping Carol’s head and holding it against her, until Carol seemed to take her whole breast in her mouth, warm and wet. Suddenly Carol shifted, turned their bodies, and Therese found herself laid out on the sofa, with Carol hovering over her. Carol’s nails scrabbled at her hips, and Therese lifted up enough that she could pull her pajama pants down, until all at once Therese was completely naked under her. Therese parted her legs, hooking them over Carol’s hips, and cried out again when Carol moved a hand between them, and touched her where she was wet and hot and aching.

“Therese,” Carol gasped, and moaned. “Oh… you feel so good. God, you always feel _so good_.”

Therese thought that she was the one being taken apart by pleasure, but when Carol pulled back for a moment, her eyes were wild, her mouth parted, panting. She was still mostly clothed, and Therese wanted to change that. But those fingers were playing gently through her, stroking her lips, nudging her clit and then circling with tight, perfect pressure. Therese could hardly breathe. She put her arms around Carol, searching. With shaking fingers she loosened the eyelets on Carol’s bra, so it slipped down. Carol pulled back just long enough to help free it from her arms, and as soon as they’d flung it aside, she was back. Their breasts pressed together, their mouths met again, and they let out twin sounds of relief and delight.

“In-in-inside,” Therese stammered.

“ _Yes_ ,” Carol hissed, and worked her hand between them again, worked two fingers against Therese’s entrance and slid inside with a gasped, “ _Fuck_ ,” just as Therese cried, “Oh!” and pressed her head back into the cushions, whining for more. “Yes, Darling,” Carol said, beginning to move her fingers with slow, deep strokes, “Yes, _fuck_ , yes _._ ”

Therese pressed her hips into her hand, rocked with her, kissed her with ever increasing urgency. This was something Carol had taught her in Waterloo, something she had never dreamed could feel so good. Her knowledge of penetration was limited to Richard, who was careless and rough with her. Who laughed at her confusion and who sulked when she told him it hurt. Richard had made sex, and especially this part of sex, feel frightening and confusing and something that just had to be got through. But when Carol entered her, that first time, it was like an entirely different world. Carol was gentle; she asked questions; she looked into Therese’s eyes to make sure it didn’t hurt, and it hadn’t, it only felt wet and tight and perfect. Nothing like with Richard. And because she was using her fingers, Therese had known she wasn’t doing it just for her own satisfaction, like Richard had. Carol was doing it for _her_ satisfaction, for _her_ pleasure, and she was in no rush. She took her time, and seemed at moments to enjoy it almost as much as Therese did.

It was like that now. Carol kissing her and moaning into her mouth as if she would lose her mind from the pleasure of it, and Therese gasping and whimpering and kissing her back, and those fingers curling against a spot that made sweat break out all over her body. But suddenly, it wasn’t enough.

“More,” she gasped, “Carol, more.”

Carol pulled back enough to look at her, to be sure. She had never used more than two fingers before. But Therese felt so wet, so open and so needy. When Carol came back with three fingers, sliding in all in one smooth go, Therese shook all over—not with orgasm, but with a different kind of bone-melting satisfaction and joy. Yes, this was what she wanted. To be full like this, to have Carol deep inside her, like this, her fingers long and firm as she began to move again. Carol twisted her wrist in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, but it meant that the heel of her palm was now rubbing against Therese’s clit as she moved. Therese’s eyes rolled back. She felt on the verge of immolation.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Carol coaxed her. “Just like that. Will you come for me?”

“Yes,” Therese gasped, her thighs beginning to quiver, her sex beginning to throb.

“Come for me,” Carol urged her, “You’re so, so beautiful. I love you, Therese—come for me.”

“Carol,” she sobbed.

“ _Yes_.”

An electric current went through her. She rose up to the peak and it was like a bell ringing in her, a note too high to touch, and then all at once she was coming. In deep, wracking waves she was coming, her body jerking and her sex clenching and her voice calling out so loud the neighbors would surely hear it. She didn’t care. All she cared about was Carol’s fingers and how they must not stop, even though it was the most intense thing she had ever felt, even though it frightened her a little, she must not stop. And she didn’t. Carol kept rubbing and massaging and her teeth were set against Therese’s shoulder blade and she was biting her. Not a painful bite but a bite of ownership, of demand, that all at once had Therese rising up again. Breaking again. Shaking in the grip of this second peak that was just as devastating as the first. Maybe more so. Therese pressed her own wrist against her mouth, biting there, too, and trying to muffle the sounds that she couldn’t stop. Carol released her shoulder, raised her face, nudged Therese’s wrist aside and swallowed her next cry with her mouth, drinking it down like elixir.

Therese had begun to feel overwhelmed by the endless crests of pleasure, but Carol’s mouth grounded her. Her kiss was like a homing beacon. Her gently stroking tongue coaxed her back to earth. Slowly, shivering as if from a fever, she began to relax. The aching pulse between her legs began to calm. Tears were running down her cheeks, but it wasn’t like what had happened in the hallway. It was relief and pleasure and joy, so much joy, that she never thought she would feel again. And Carol was cooing her name in between kisses, soothing her, murmuring sounds of adoration and comfort, and saying again and again, “I love you. I love you.”


	7. Chapter 7

Therese was still faintly clenching around her fingers. There was so much wetness Carol thought she might slip out of her. She was damp all over with sweat, little wisps of her dark hair plastered to her neck and jaw and forehead. She was shivering and panting—a _wreck_ , Abby might call it. And Carol had never seen anything so sinfully exquisite in her life. There had been other women. There was Abby. And making love with them had been a delight, something she’d needed in a visceral way. But this… this was transporting. Nothing else would ever, could ever compare, and Carol was determined then that she would never have to find out. Harge could throw her to the wolves, for all she cared. She could survive wolves. But she could not survive a world without Therese.

Therese’s body, damp and warm, was too much temptation. She kissed her delicately—her chest, and her collarbones. The spot between her breasts. The sharpness of her rib cage and the ball of her shoulder. All of her salty and silky and delicious. Carol felt that she could never get enough of her, and was hoping she could make love to her again, when Therese’s soft, breathless voice shattered her:

“I love you, Carol. I love you so much.”

It was all Carol could do not to start weeping. But they’d had enough of tears. Carol met Therese’s eyes, which were dilated and smoky, and looking at her with such incredible tenderness. Therese reached between her legs, taking Carol’s wrist, and helping her gently pull her fingers out, whimpering a little. Carol felt bereft, until Therese lifted up and kissed her gently.

And then she whispered against her mouth, “Let me touch you.”

Carol nearly choked, a flutter of arousal sending goosebumps all across her body, and a shiver down her spine. Her nipples felt suddenly heavy and tight; the space between her thighs felt heavy, too, aching. It was months since Therese had touched her. Months since she’d felt that agonizing release in the Drake Hotel, Therese licking her so sweetly and gently, til she’d come apart in waves. And now Therese was running her hands all over her, not shyly, but with a confidence like ownership. Now she was lifting up and kissing her again, deep kisses, slow, like she would devour her. Her hands slid down Carol’s body—and encountered the dress, still bunched around her waist. She pulled back from their kiss, smiling her brightest, dimpled smile.

“Sit back,” she coaxed.

Carol obeyed. What else could she do but obey? Therese had lit her up, all over, and she needed her. Pulling herself off of Therese’s body made her feel lost, but Therese followed her close, helping her move until she was sitting against the opposite arm of the loveseat. The dress, like most of Carol’s dresses, was form-fitting, and it was awkward getting it off, but then it was discarded and Therese was sliding her hands up her stockinged legs, toward her garter snaps and girdle, and she put her hands on her hips and bent to kiss Carol’s stomach, just below the elastic waistband.

Carol felt suddenly self-conscious. Therese was so young, her body so slim and fey; she could go about her apartment with only the simplest underwear, and no bra under her sweater, and there was something bewitching about it. Carol, on the other hand, was nearly thirty three. Her clothes and her body required an entire retinue of undergarments, that might be sophisticated, but were also cumbersome and uncomfortable. And when she was naked, what would Therese see? Imprints from those garments, and stretch marks from Rindy, and all the signs that Carol wasn’t twenty anymore—

“You’re so beautiful,” Therese whispered.

Carol blinked, as if clearing away a fog that had risen up between them. Therese had lifted up and was leaning forward, nudging their noses together as she began to unsnap the garters.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought of you?” Therese asked her. “How much I’ve wanted you? And now, here you are. I must be dreaming.”

Carol was too startled to answer, but Therese didn’t seem to need her to say anything. Therese was pulling back again and peeling the stockings down her legs. She slid back up and this time she reached for the girdle and Carol’s underwear and she pulled these down, too. As she kissed her way up again, every little press of lips made Carol shiver. She drew closer, sliding her lips and then her tongue up Carol’s thighs. Suddenly Therese made a little murmuring sound of delight and began to lick more. Carol realized with a flush that Therese could taste her—could taste the wetness that had leaked down onto her inner thighs. When Therese reached the juncture, she breathed her in, and groaned. Carol thought she would never stop blushing, and yet it was also the most wonderful, beautiful thing, to realize that Therese not only liked her body but wanted it, wanted her smell and her taste, perhaps just as violently as she was wanted in return.

She slid her hands into Therese’s hair and began to tug, gasping, “Come here.”

Therese obeyed, moving up and bracing herself with hands on the arm of the sofa behind her. They kissed again, with more of that deep and all-consuming hunger. They tried to maneuver so that Carol was lying down on the couch but—God, she was too tall! And she’d never in her life regretted it until now! But her lover wasn’t phased at all, only kept kissing her and moaning and running her hands all over her, and then suddenly was tugging her sideways.

They slid off the couch in an ungainly heap, the carpet scratchy against Carol’s back, and she would have flailed at the sheer indignity of it—except Therese was on top of her now, her whole naked body spread across Carol’s. Therese was kissing her, ravenously. She put a thigh between her legs and pressed it forward, tight, into the throbbing spot where Carol needed her most. With a sharp cry, Carol broke their kiss, head tossing and neck arching back. Instantly, Therese’s mouth was there, her tongue dragging from the dip of her throat up to her chin. Carol grabbed at her, grabbed and squeezed her all over, her arms and her waist and her back, then reached for her face and tilted it back up to her lips. She couldn’t get enough of kissing her. How had she forgotten, in just a few months, how intoxicating it was to kiss her?

 _‘You made yourself forget,’_ Carol thought. _‘How else could you bear it?’_

She had made herself forget other things, too, she realized. She had made herself forget that Therese, such a quiet, shy girl, was _not_ a shy lover. It was Therese who maneuvered them into sharing a room. It was Therese who had told her, _‘Take me to bed.’_ It was Therese who said, _‘No, don’t,’_ when she would have shut off the lights their first night together. And now it was Therese who moaned into her mouth, “What do you want? Tell me what you want…”

 _‘You,’_ Carol thought. _‘You you you!”_

She took Therese’s hand and drew it down between her legs. The moment Therese’s fingers stroked through her, she shivered all over.

“Oh, touch me,” she gasped. “Please, please, touch me.”

Therese did. She wasn’t shy. She played through Carol’s wetness, rubbed tenderly at her throbbing clit, and then slid inside her. She used the force of her thigh behind her hand and started rocking into her, deep, deliberate strokes that made Carol’s eyes squeeze shut, made her whisper brokenly, “Oh, oh, oh—” She hooked one of her legs around Therese’s hip, opening herself up for more, and Therese gave it, moving deeper and harder. Carol was trembling wildly. Every time Therese pulled out Carol would gasp for breath, and every time she pressed back in she would rub against a raw and sensitive spot that made Carol whimper and whine and thrash. After only a few minutes Carol could feel her pleasure cresting, could feel the nearness of her release like a gale rattling the windows of a house, preparing to sweep it all to pieces.

Then Therese hunched her body, bent down, and took Carol’s hard and aching nipple into her mouth, and it was all over.

Her orgasm was a tsunami, slamming into her, tumbling her headlong, breaking her—but it was not destruction. It was not pain. After all these weeks of holding herself in, making herself small, squeezing herself into the prescriptive and suffocating mold that Harge required—this was utter freedom and joy. It was more than pleasure. It was redemption. It went through her in wave after wave of bliss. And all the while, Therese was there. Holding her. Stroking her. Kissing her and murmuring her name over and over as if it were a benediction. As if she, Carol, were not only the source of her pain but of her delight. As if all the sadness Carol had caused, to both of them, did not have to be the end of it. There could be more. There could be this. There could be life, and love, and Therese, always Therese, Therese, in a thousand cities—

Carol was crying, but it didn’t matter. Therese kissed her cheeks and her eyes and her tear tracks, and Therese held her fingers still inside her, an anchor in the storm. When the last of her release had melted into curling tendrils, and when her tears had stopped and she was breathing almost calmly, they looked at each other in a kind of stunned silence. After everything, they were here. Somehow, beautifully, they were here.

“Don’t leave me again,” Therese whispered.

And Carol, arching up to kiss her, promised with all her heart, “Never. Never.” 

And she didn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it!


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